Untitled iii.

My country is a burden

My cross,
nothing more than
something to bear

I would rather be
A scarlet letter
than wrap the white
collar around my neck.

When a soldier goes to war,

does he know who he is defending?

a stranger,
a cancerous body
left for dead in WWII,

a ring of roses on the Pacific ocean,
I barely let off a stench;

because I

was never oppressed, I
the poster child of privilege
puking my own name
into a porcelain throne to fit

into the clothes my mother
bought me

that I wore to America, where
the same people who told me
it was no longer
kosher to follow
the Ten Commandments

turned me into a minority
though I have yet to figure out
what that means

and even still,
this pain is nothing compared to
the pain of

even still,
my pain is nothing when it is

but I
am selfish

I, the poster child of privilege
spitting bile into
a silver spoon

I defend
my choices fiercely

counting each stolen
race, gender, class

as a crucifixion nail.

Heavy with pride,
a made-to-order
sign of the times.